


Walking Dead

by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)



Series: Sterek New Year's Extravaganza [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Getting Together, M/M, Magic Mishaps, Magic Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pining Derek, Undead, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-05 01:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13376925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasterella/pseuds/isthatbloodonhisshirt
Summary: “So remember back when I used to be the only human in the group, and you joked about how funny it would be if I ended up being something?”His dad stared at him, looking a little green.Stiles spread his hands out and wiggled them in a ta-dah motion. “Surprise.”The sheriff’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. “I need to sit down.”(SNYE - January 17th - Magic Mishaps)





	Walking Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf (c) Jeff Davis

The first time it happened, Stiles had been five years old. He’d been outside on the porch steps, crying while his mother rubbed his back and shushed him soothingly. He’d been letting out loud, hiccupy sobs, and his mother kept kissing his cheeks or rubbing her cheek against his head, and murmuring quiet reassurances.

She’d kissed his cheek again when he started to calm down and asked if he wanted a juice box. He’d nodded and sniffled, so Claudia had gone back inside to grab one.

While she was gone and Stiles sat there alone and still crying, his dog Bosco had trotted over to him and sat down beside him, nuzzling against Stiles’ side.

Upon seeing him, Stiles had let out a shriek of delight and hugged him tightly, despite how dirty and bony he was.

When Claudia had exited the house, she’d dropped the juice box when Stiles loudly exclaimed,

“Look, momma! Bosco came back!”

Claudia had picked him up and hastily brought him into the house. He was set at the table to colour while his mother called the police station to speak to his dad.

Stiles never saw Bosco again.

The second time it happened, Stiles was twelve and it was on Halloween. He and Scott had dressed up as the Dread Pirate Roberts and Inigo Montoya from _The Princess Bride_ —Stiles as the former, Scott as the latter. They’d gotten ambushed by Jackson and some of his asshole friends and most of their candy had been stolen. They hadn’t had any luck going back to houses they’d already visited because people remembered their unique costumes and they were essentially cheated out of a good sugar high.

Stiles had been so mad he’d walked right into someone and fallen over. Apologizing for his rudeness, he and Scott complemented the guy on his great costume and walked away. They were halfway home when they noticed the man was following them. He was walking relatively slowly, but keeping up well enough to give Stiles the heebie jeebies. He and Scott had sped up, and when the man _still_  followed, Stiles called his dad who showed up in his cruiser five minutes later.

He yelled at the man from the car, telling him to get out of there before he arrested him for stalking a bunch of pre-teen boys and had gotten angrily into the cruiser.

He’d driven Scott home first, and then Stiles before going back to work. While Stiles had been looking through his meagre pickings, he’d heard movement outside and looked up to find the costumed man at the living room window, watching him.

Stiles had promptly freaked out and called his dad, who’d driven home in record time with the sirens wailing. By the time he arrived home, the man had shuffled away into the nearby woods and Stiles never saw him again.

But the third time? No, the third time was ASB—or “After Scott’s Bite”—so when it happened, Stiles _definitely_  noticed and he was _thoroughly freaked out_!

Because before Scott’s bite, this would’ve been impossible and there would’ve been a logical explanation, such as too many tacos or a bad prank or even a really bad trip from too many Red Bulls and not enough sleep. But no, ASB meant the only logical explanation was that what he thought was happening was actually happening and this was bad, so very bad, and he had no _fucking_  idea what to do.

* * *

Stiles sat in his desk chair, hands together as if in prayer and pressed against his mouth while he stared at the individual currently seated on his bed. He was going to have to burn his blanket and had very carefully rescued his pillow before any permanent damage could be done, but everything else would have to go.

There was dirt, beetles, maggots, torn clothing and bits of flesh all over his bed, and probably on his floor, burrowing into his carpet, in his walls, hiding in the magazines he had under the bed. Really, his whole room would have to be torched, he and his dad would have to sell, there was no other option.

“So what you’re saying,” a very rough, worn, raspy voice said, “is that that all happened three years ago.”

Stiles worried he would vomit if he opened his mouth, the smell positively foul, so he just nodded, hands still pressed against his lips.

“Three years,” he repeated, and Stiles just nodded again.

The individual on his bed frowned—or, at least—attempted to with what was left of his face.

“Then how am I here?”

Stiles didn’t want to open his mouth. What if he threw up everywhere? Or worse, what if the other propelled himself across the floor and went all Dementor on him and sucked his soul out of his mouth? Or what if he had some weird flying bug that liked warm, moist places and decided Stiles’ mouth was a nice new home?

Stiles’ gorge rose at the last thought and he gagged, shifting to fully cover his mouth with one hand, feeling vomit rising up his throat.

“Stiles,” the other said, a warning in his tone. He started to stand and Stiles shot his free hand up, pointing emphatically at the bed, silently telling him to sit down.

It looked like he was fighting the urge to obey and lost the battle because he obediently sat back down.

Stiles swallowed bile that had risen up his throat, struggling not to lose his shit. He knew he had to call someone, _anyone_ , but this was kind of a new experience, even by their standards. So he just sat there staring, trying to figure out what to do.

And that was how his dad found him when he came home from shift two hours later. He’d obviously seen his light still on, because he knocked once and pushed open the door, eyes finding Stiles and smiling at him.

“Hey kiddo, what are—” His eyes found who was sitting on the bed and he instantly went rigid, hands reaching urgently for his gun and drawing it, aiming at the party on the bed, expression hard.

“What the hell?!” he demanded, eyes shifting to Stiles quickly before returning to his target. “What the _hell_ , Stiles?!”

He didn’t say anything, one hand still covering his mouth and the other holding the first in place. He just kept staring at who was sitting on his bed—said party looking angrier and angrier as time passed in silence—and slowly shook his head.

“Son,” the sheriff said, strain in his voice betraying how freaked out he was despite his calm exterior. “We’ve been through a lot the past couple years. I’ve seen and heard of a lot of things, but this was one I thought could stay in the movies.”

Stiles nodded in agreement. He wished it had stayed in the movies, too. He wished he knew how to get him to _go away_.

For a long while, nobody moved, the sheriff still aiming his gun at the individual on the bed, who sat motionless, while Stiles continued his silent freakout from his desk chair.

This really _was_  one of the worst things, even by their standards.

“I’m still waiting for an explanation,” the sheriff said after a long moment of silence.

Nodding, Stiles got to his feet, one hand still covering his mouth, and motioned the door. When his dad glanced nervously at who was on the bed, he just waved his hand more emphatically towards the door. Reluctantly, his dad lowered the gun and moved to the door, eyes still on the figure on the bed. Stiles practically had to shove him out of the room and slam the door shut behind them.

“What the hell, Stiles?” His dad loud-whispered, looking terrified.

Stiles knew that not many things scared his dad, so the fact that he looked _this_  scared meant this had to be some kind of fear he had.

Terrific. Then the news Stiles had for him was _really_  going to make him happy.

“Stiles,” his dad hissed, pointing a shaky finger at his bedroom door, “what is the decomposed body of Matthew Daehler doing sitting in your bedroom?”

“Right,” Stiles said, finally lowering his hand and feeling like he could breathe again for the first time in hours. “So, I looked it up, and good news is he’s not a Zombie.”

“Are you sure about that?” the sheriff asked, massaging his heart with one hand while the other still held his gun at his side.

“Yeah, I looked into it and while Zombies are totally real, apparently it’s super obvious. They’re mindless, they _do_ , in fact, eat human brains, preferably while their victims are still alive—”

“Terrific,” the sheriff muttered.

“—and they’re actually really fast on their feet. Oh, and good news, being bitten by one doesn’t turn you into one, so at least we won’t ever have to worry about an outbreak if we ever had a Zombie apocalypse. Though I’m also kind of curious about what would happen if a Zombie bit a Werewolf, like, would they be a Zombie-Werewolf hybrid or would one be stronger than the other and take over or would they just cancel each other out and—”

“Stiles,” the sheriff said, “focus. Matthew Daehler is in your room.”

“Right, sorry.” Stiles got back on track. “Anyway, not a Zombie. Matt is conscious, he knows who he is, where he is, what’s going on. Doesn’t get why he’s dead, so I guess that didn’t stick, with the beating and the drowning and—”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah, okay. So I uh, I looked into it because when he showed up in the house, I screamed like a girl and tried to bash his brains in except, you know, he’s already dead and not a Zombie, so that did _not_  work. All it did was make him mad, like _really_  mad and I thought I was going to get my brain eaten because, let’s face it, my brain is full of knowledge and likely delicious—”

“Stiles,” his dad said, heaving a huge sigh and rubbing at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, as if trying to push back a headache.

“Right, anyway, so I freaked out and basically told him to get away from me and he did. Then I started half ordering him around in a panic and he listened to everything I said.”

“What does that mean, he listened to everything you said?” The sheriff frowned.

“I mean he listened to everything I said. He obeyed me. Like, he wanted to hit me at one point and I screamed for him not to touch me and I could see him fighting to resist my order but he couldn’t. So I told him to sit on the bed—not my brightest idea, mind you—and then researched to figure out what was going on. And once I figured it out, I told him that he was dead since, apparently, to him, he looks completely normal and not like a mostly decomposed and rotting corpse.”

“So you researched, and what did you find?” The sheriff holstered his gun, like he was tired of holding it, or maybe worried about accidentally discharging it. “Is he some kind of weird Zombie-Kanima hybrid? Is that why he can be controlled?”

Stiles winced and rubbed the back of his neck, not entirely sure what to say.

So, in classic Stiles fashion, he went for a joke.

“So remember back when I used to be the only human in the group, and you joked about how funny it would be if I ended up being something?”

His dad stared at him, looking a little green.

Stiles spread his hands out and wiggled them in a ta-dah motion. “Surprise.”

The sheriff’s mouth opened. Shut. Opened again. “I need to sit down.”

“Yeah, probably.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Stiles followed his dad down the corridor and the stairs. They entered the kitchen and his dad went to the cabinet he kept the whisky “hidden” in. He grabbed the bottle and a glass, and sat down at the table. Stiles took a seat across from him, waiting while the man poured himself a small glass, drank it down, and then poured another. Screwing the cap back on, he set the bottle aside, touched the rim of the glass with a few fingers, and stared at Stiles.

“Okay. Hit me.”

“So remember when Bosco died and suddenly came back?” Stiles asked.

“Of course I do,” the sheriff grunted, taking a sip of his drink. “Your mother was in hysterics.”

“Yeah. And uh, that time that weird Zombie-looking dude was following Scott and I around that one Halloween?”

“Get to the point, Stiles,” his dad ordered.

“Uh, so Necromancers are a thing. Apparently. Since I am one.”

“And what is that?”

Stiles would’ve been disappointed his father didn’t know what a Necromancer was, but to be fair, he wasn’t a prolific gamer so it kind of made sense.

So he sat there and, as calmly as he could, explained what Necromancy was. There wasn’t a lot on them that he could find, even in the Beastiary. Apparently they were _extremely_  rare, and virtually impossible to distinguish from regular humans, so having any details available on them at all was already impressive.

He gave him the general rundown: Necromancers had the ability to re-animate and control the dead. It didn’t matter how old or mangled a body was, if a Necromancer called to it, it came alive.

Stiles had definitely _not_  called to Matt, but he knew Bosco made sense. Since his dog had just died, and his mother had tried to explain that to him, it made sense he was thinking about him and trying to get him to come back.

All he remembered about Halloween was that he’d been angry at Jackson for stealing his candy, and wanted someone to protect him and Scott, so maybe that had been so general a random corpse in the vicinity had re-animated.

Matt, though? He had _no_  fucking idea. He hadn’t thought about Matt since the asshole had died, so how or why he’d been the one to re-animate, Stiles didn’t know. He didn’t even remember what he was thinking about before Matt had just shown up in his house.

Which reminded him that he should definitely be locking his front door going forward, or else he was liable to get more accidental visits. He already had to burn everything in his room, he didn’t really want to have to burn the whole damn house down.

“All right,” his father said once he’d drained his third glass. Were this not a crazy situation coupled with the glasses being tiny, Stiles would’ve taken the whisky away from him by now. “So, this happened. How do you get rid of him?”

Stiles shrug-flailed in response, because he had no idea. He didn’t even know how he was _doing_  it, let alone how to _end_  it! He just wanted to go back to being the normal, boring human guy who did all the research.

Now Mason was the normal boring guy. That wasn’t fair, Mason wasn’t _nearly_  as normal or boring as Stiles was. He felt so jipped, this sucked.

“All I know is that if I called him here, presumably I can make him go away.” Stiles motioned shooing something away. “I just haven’t quite figured out how to do that yet. I thought about just telling him to go away, but what if he just walks out of the house and wanders around? He’s a decomposing corpse, someone will notice.”

Seriously, Stiles didn’t know how he could speak. It was rough and hard to understand, but he was speaking. He wondered what a _full_  skeleton would be like, but didn’t want to risk that. He’d been avoiding thinking about his mother as much as possible since realizing what he was. He didn’t want to entertain the idea of bringing her back, because he was sure shoving someone’s soul back into their rotting, decomposed body wasn’t pleasant. And for his mother, she’d been dead much longer than three years, he didn’t want to do that to her.

Or his dad.

Or himself.

It was overall just a bad idea.

They both heard a thump upstairs and for a second, Stiles thought Matt had dropped something or moved or he didn’t know what, but then he heard a loud curse and roar and he’d recognize that obnoxious sound anywhere.

“Shit!” Stiles leapt from his seat and raced for the stairs, hurrying up them two at a time, tripping over his own feet, then pushing himself back upright to continue his mad scramble up the stairs. When he pushed open his bedroom door, Derek was standing just inside the window, fully wolfed out and snarling at Matt, who hadn’t moved from the bed.

“Dude, it’s called a door. You know what a door is? Normal people use it. With the doorbell and the waiting on the porch and the letting other people let you into their house.”

“Why is Derek climbing through your window?” Matt asked him.

“He’s allergic to doors, I don’t know.” Stiles threw his hands in the air, his father appearing behind him.

“Derek,” the sheriff greeted calmly. “You know we have a door, right?”

“What is that?” Derek demanded, motioning the bed, still wolfed out, eyes bright blue.

Rubbing his face with both hands, Stiles dragged them down his cheeks, pulling hard at the skin.

“Okay, I’m not repeating this story eighteen times, so let’s just get the Pack together and I’ll have one pow-wow.” He started to turn, then faced the bed again and pointed at Matt. “Don’t move.”

“Can I get a book or something?”

“No, you killed people, you get nothing.” Stiles turned and left the room, his father looking like he was asking God for patience or strength or both before he followed. It took Derek a little longer to do the same, but he eventually did and they headed back down to the kitchen, Stiles texting Scott so that he could get this entire evening over with.

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re not human,” Scott said while sitting on the ground behind Stiles. The latter was currently standing by the water’s edge, skipping rocks across the surface. Well, skipping rocks was a bit of a stretch, considering they more just hit the water and sank as opposed to actually skipping. He wasn’t good at this, apparently.

“You’re not human, either,” Stiles reminded him, grabbing a new stone, running his thumb along the smooth surface, and then attempting to skip it. He’d been feeling exceptionally tired all day, and his whole body was starting to hurt and act sluggish. He blamed his poor skipping ability on that.

“I would’ve stayed human if Peter hadn’t bitten me,” Scott insisted. “But you, Lydia, Kira and Malia always would’ve been something else.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, playing with the stone he’d just picked up and turning to Scott. “I mean, you’re a True Alpha. I think that you were always meant to be more than just a human with asthma.”

Scott offered him a smile at those words, but didn’t say anything so Stiles turned back to the lake, trying to skip another rock.

He’d spent the night at Scott’s place after the group discussion with the Pack. Deaton had been there, because Stiles figured they should have at least _one_  person who was knowledgeable about the Supernatural present, but he’d been as baffled and intrigued as everyone else.

Stiles wished Chris Argent was around, but he’d gone away a few days prior and no one knew when he was due back. Then again, Chris would probably be as interested as Deaton had been, and Stiles didn’t want to end up on a lab table. He didn’t believe Necromancers were rare, he felt it was more that they kept themselves hidden. Stiles wasn’t exactly thrilled about what he was, his life was complicated enough without adding this to the mix.

“Matt still in your room?” Scott asked him after a long moment of silence.

“Far as I know,” he responded, throwing another rock. He did so in an upper-hand kind of way, not bothering with trying to make it skip, lacking the energy to whip his arm out enough. “Dad slept on the couch in his office at work.”

“That’s good.”

Neither of them had felt comfortable staying in the house with Matt, and the sheriff _definitely_  hadn’t wanted Stiles to stick around alone. Hence the Scott sleepover. Still, that wasn’t going to solve their problem.

And he probably had more maggots and other bugs in his closet, now. Great. He almost gagged at the thought. Why couldn’t the gross, decomposing body have come over _without_  the hitchhikers? Stiles was going to have a hell of a time disinfecting his house.

Maybe they should move. That seemed reasonable, right?

Stiles was still absently throwing rocks into the lake, giving up on the skipping, when Scott spoke again and he whipped around.

“Hey Derek.”

Derek had snuck up on them. Or him, probably, since Scott had likely heard him coming from a mile away. The older man was scowling at Stiles, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and shoulders tense.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“Oh God, did Matt go crazy and eat someone’s brain?” Stiles blurted out.

Derek gave him a look for that, but Stiles felt like it was a valid question! Matt may have been a reanimated corpse under Stiles’ control, but Stiles wasn’t sure _how_  to control him, so for all he knew, Matt had gone on a spree.

Beacon Hills was basically an all you can eat buffet for a brain-eating Zombie. Lots of people to feed on.

“Your affliction is going to have to wait. We have a Pack moving in on our territory. Far as I can tell, they’re coming to challenge the Alpha for it.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, relieved. No big deal, this had happened before, wasn’t like they hadn’t fought off invading Packs before.

“They want to fight the Hale Alpha,” Derek said dryly. “So I’d consider that a problem, given I’m not an Alpha.”

“Do they not know the Hale territory belongs to the McCall Pack?” Stiles asked, ignoring the glower he got for that. Derek hated it when they brought up the fact that, while Derek _was_  in the McCall Pack and this _was_  his territory, this wasn’t _his_  Pack, it was the McCall Pack. Stiles felt like he shouldn’t take it so personally, he’d chosen to give up his Alpha abilities, that was his problem.

He felt like Derek had gotten grumpier since his return, but Scott insisted he was better. Stiles didn’t know what he was talking about, every time Derek looked at him, it was like Stiles’ very existence offended him. He barely looked at him, he never talked to him unless he had to, and he always showed up in his room to yell at him about something stupid he’d done in recent times before leaving again.

Stiles had no idea what Derek’s problem was with him, but he missed the old Derek he’d kind of been friends with. This new Derek annoyed him, to be honest.

He must’ve tuned out for a second because Scott suddenly said his name and when he looked over at him, he and Derek were already between the trees, Scott giving him a weird look.

“Are you coming?”

“Oh, yeah, yup. Coming.” Stiles hurried to catch up, his legs feeling full of lead. He made it through the trees and picked his way through the forest, following behind Scott and Derek, who were still speaking to one another.

They’d barely even made it half a mile into the forest when Stiles stopped, leaning against a tree and shaking his head. His vision was starting to blur and breathing almost felt like a chore. He dug his nails into the bark of the tree he was leaning against, trying to ground himself.

“Stiles?”

He looked over and found Scott right beside him, Derek a few steps away, frowning.

Always frowning. Did the guy know his face was going to get stuck that way one day?

“Are you okay?” Scott asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head again and then rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “I feel tired. And everything’s blurry and kind of spinning. It’s like I’m completely drained of energy or something.”

Before Scott could say anything, Derek was suddenly in his personal space, grabbing his arm and turning him forcibly so he faced him. It made everything spin for a good few seconds, and he missed what Derek said, which had the Werewolf give him a rough shake and yell his name.

“Dude,” Stiles insisted, shoving at Derek, “I _just_  said everything was kind of spinning, shaking me is only making things worse.”

Derek let him go and Stiles slumped against the tree, sliding to the ground and sitting in the dirt. His two friends crouched in front of him, Scott looking concerned and Derek still sporting his scowl.

“Stiles, is Matt still animated?” Derek asked.

“I don’t know, probably?” Stiles said. “Given I didn’t get a manual on how to control my abilities, I’d say he probably is. Why?”

“You’ve animated a corpse for over twelve hours. It’s probably draining you,” Derek said.

Oh. That—actually made a lot of sense. Stiles had been feeling exhausted when he’d finally passed out at Scott’s, and had slept a lot longer than he usually did. He’d woken up feeling okay, but as the day had worn on, he’d started feeling more and more tired. Exerting himself by coming out to the lake, then skipping and throwing the rocks, and now hiking back through the woods was probably not helping the whole exhaustion thing.

“We need to get you back to your house so you can get Matt back in the ground,” Scott said, still bent down beside him. “Can you stand?”

“Probably?” Stiles rubbed at his face and then pushed back against the tree, using it to help him stand. The world tilted at an angle but before he fell over, someone grabbed his shoulder and then he was lifted off the ground.

“Hey, no!” Stiles insisted, slapping at a hard, toned chest. The feel of it suggested it belonged to Derek. “You’re not carrying me bridal style!”

“Do you want me to drop you on your ass instead?”

Stiles didn’t know how to answer that question, he just knew he wasn’t happy about being carried in that manner. Still, he knew he couldn’t make it out of the forest on his own right now, and while he would’ve preferred a piggy-back, he worried too much complaining would have Derek put him down and he didn’t think Scott would carry him back to the car.

Wrapping one arm around Derek’s shoulders so he didn’t slump over, he just glared at the ground while the other walked, carrying him in his arms like some kind of damsel in distress. Stiles was _not_  a damsel in distress. In fact, between the two of them, _Derek_  was the damsel in distress! Stiles had saved him _so many times_!

He did his best to ignore his wounded ego until they made it back to the Jeep. He noticed the Camaro wasn’t there, and wondered how Derek had gotten out in the woods. He’d probably run there like a weirdo.

Stiles wanted to argue that he could drive, but he’d prefer not to crash his baby so he let Derek put him in the back seat and promptly lay down, closing his eyes so he could snooze on the way home. This whole being a Necromancer thing was sucking so far, and he wondered how he’d gotten rid of Boscoe and the dude at Halloween.

Hell, maybe there were more, he just didn’t remember them! He’d gotten them to go away, so there had to be some way for him to get rid of Matt. Maybe if he willed for it really, _really_  hard...

“Stiles!”

His eyes snapped open and he looked out in time to see Scott shoving at Derek angrily, yelling, “Don’t _hit_  him! That isn’t going to help!”

As if the words had caused the pain, Stiles felt the sting in his cheek and sat up, rubbing at it.

“Ow! Did you slap me?”

“You wouldn’t wake up!” Derek insisted.

“That doesn’t mean you slap me,” Stiles muttered, ignoring the fact that he’d once slapped Derek to wake him up. Werewolves were different! Derek had felt the sting for like, a second! Stiles was going to feel the slap for two days!

He climbed out of the Jeep, still rubbing his cheek, and headed for the front door. Derek moved in front of him, leading the way, and Scott followed in the back, hands hovering out in front of him, like he thought Stiles might fall over.

He actually felt a little better—barring the injured cheek, thank you _very_  much, _Derek_ —and figured the nap had done wonders for his supply of energy. That was good to know, at least. He could keep someone animated for an extended period of time as long as he got to take naps in between.

Also, he wasn’t dead. That was a relief. He was actually pretty lucky, if he was honest, because he could’ve literally just killed himself by animating someone for this long.

He followed Derek up the stairs, slapping at Scott in annoyance when he hovered too close, and walked into his room behind the older Werewolf.

“About time!” Matt snapped. Stiles was pretty sure he was glaring, but his face was kind of a mangled mess. “Do you know how long I’ve been sitting here?”

“Do you think I _want_  you sitting here?” Stiles asked, annoyed. “There’s maggots in my mattress! I literally have to burn my entire bedroom.”

He saw Derek flinch out of the corner of his eye and cursed himself internally. Right. Fire and a Hale. Probably best not to mention that kind of stuff in front of Derek.

“Look, as soon as I figure out how to send you on your way, believe me, you’ll be on your way.” Stiles fell heavily into his desk chair, rubbing at his face, and turned to face his computer. He let out a horrified shout, jerking away from his desk, and Derek was instantly beside him, wolfed out.

“Ugh! Why didn’t I make you stay outside?!” Stiles demanded angrily, since his keyboard had a fucking _giant_  beetle hanging out on it. He started to reach for it, but when his hand got close enough it magically sprouted wings and flew right at his _face_.

Flailing and jerking out of his chair, he stumbled into Derek, who rolled his eyes and swatted the bug away. Stiles could handle a lot of things, but bugs flying at his face wasn’t one of them! He didn’t want anything making his ear canal its home or burrowing into his brain through his nose.

And great, he was never sleeping in this room again. Matt had ruined his life while alive _and_  dead!

Stiles fell back into his chair, groaning and burying his face in his hands.

This was going to be a long fucking day.

* * *

It took Stiles six hours to get rid of Matt, and even when he finally did, he had _no_  idea _how_  he managed it. He’d been sitting at his desk browsing anything he could find on the internet, Derek sitting on the floor by his dresser with a large tome from Deaton in his lap, and suddenly Matt went rigid and slumped over.

Stiles and Derek had shared a look and Stiles had argued for Derek to poke at him until the Werewolf finally stood and did as he was told. Upon discovering he was _truly_  dead—well, _re_ -dead—they’d had to figure out how to get him back to the cemetery. Stiles’ room was ruined, no way was he ruining his Jeep!

He’d called Scott, who’d left a couple hours before to go to work, but he was no help. It didn’t matter anyway, because they would have to bury him under the cover of darkness, and while the light was fading outside, it was still way too light for them to be traipsing around in a cemetery.

So Stiles just kept looking into his abilities, and Derek stayed sitting on the floor by the dresser. He didn’t even know why Derek was still there, but he didn’t mind. At least he wasn’t alone.

When he glanced over his shoulder at him, he saw Derek had stretched out one leg, the other bent at the knee, tome resting against it while he slowly flipped through the pages, frown on his face. He glanced up, presumably sensing Stiles’ eyes on him, and raised both eyebrows at him.

“What?” Stiles asked him.

Derek’s eyebrows just went higher and Stiles rolled his eyes before facing his computer again.

Around seven, his dad came home and seemed relieved about Matt being dead again, though he understandably wanted him gone. They looked like grave robbers right now.

Derek stayed for dinner and then helped Stiles wrap Matt up in a sheet. He carried him out of the house over his shoulder and, sadly, they had to defile Stiles’ Jeep.

They headed for the cemetery with the sheriff saying he’d keep an ear out for any reports coming in from the station about suspicious activity in the area. Stiles would’ve preferred if he’d joined them, but as it stood, Scott was conveniently ignoring his calls, and everyone else in the Pack was mysteriously busy.

Stiles would remember this the next time one of _them_  needed to bury a body. The only one he could count on was Grumpy McEyebrows.

When they reached the cemetery, Derek carried Matt out towards his grave, the two of them reaching it to find the earth disturbed but otherwise fine. It was like he’d broken through his coffin and crawled up through the dirt.

“Great,” Stiles muttered, turning around. “I’ll get the shovels.”

Testament to his life that he had at least four shovels in various places in his Jeep. He made his way back to it quickly, grabbed the first two he found, and hurried back to Derek. He’d set Matt down beside his grave and had started digging with his hands. Stiles resisted the urge to make a dog joke, knowing Derek would abandon him if he did, so he just handed over a shovel and they started digging.

It took a lot less time than it would have had Derek not been there, but still longer than Stiles liked. His skin prickled uncomfortably being in the cemetery, close to so many bodies. It had never bothered him before, but now, he felt like he would have a hard time visiting his mother virtually for the rest of this life.

Once they got Matt back into his gross, bug-infested coffin, they closed it up and pushed the dirt back onto it until it was as flat as they could get it. Then they trudged back to the Jeep, dirty and sweaty.

Stiles drove Derek back to the loft, quietly thanking him for his help, and then headed home. His dad was still up, and Stiles found his bed stripped and his room smelling heavily of a mix of Raid and Febreeze.

His dad was the best.

He called that he would stay in the spare room for the night, retrieved his pillow from the safe location he’d stashed it in, showered, and went to bed.

He knew he would sleep badly that night. It was impossible for him _not_  to, considering everything that had happened. He was exhausted, and somewhat traumatized, and for some reason he kept dreaming about bodies crawling out of the ground and finding him and trying to suck the life out of him to bring themselves back to life.

He woke up freaking out numerous times, feelings either bugs or hands crawling up his legs, but every time he kicked the blankets off to check, nothing was there.

He’d managed to survive the night before, but he wondered if the comfort of Scott being in the same room, coupled with his exhaustion, had made him pass out and not dream. He wished that could happen to him again.

When he woke up for the fifth time from a particularly horrible nightmare about being buried alive by a group of zombies, it took his muddled mind a while to figure out that it wasn’t him shaking, but the house.

He sat bolt upright, climbing out of bed and stumbling to the door while the entire house rocked violently.

“Stiles,” he heard his dad call from down the corridor.

Stiles opened the bedroom door and stood in the doorway, looking out at where his dad was stumbling his way towards him.

“Dad, doorway! Earthquake 101!”

His dad ducked into the closest doorway while everything continued to shake violently. Stiles slumped heavily against the frame, vision swimming and feeling ready to pass out. Dots danced in front of his eyes and he was pretty sure he blacked out for a moment because when he was aware of his surroundings again, things had stopped shaking and his dad was in front of him, looking worried.

“Stiles? Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He cleared his throat when the words came out slurred. Rubbing one hand down his face, he opened his eyes wide, then shook his head, feeling disoriented.

“Stiles?”

“I’m good, Pops.” He slapped his dad in the arm, forcing a smile. “Just tired.” He glanced down the corridor. “We should do a damage report.”

“Yeah.” His dad dragged his hand down his face, looking almost as exhausted as Stiles felt. “I’ll check downstairs.”

“Okay.”

He watched his dad head down the corridor and disappear down the stairs. Stiles sighed and leaned heavily against the frame, legs shaking and struggling to hold up his weight. He took a few seconds to get himself under control, and then headed slowly for his dad’s room, using the wall for support.

He methodically checked every room, and while all of them had items that had fallen over, nothing appeared to be badly damaged. His television had shifted to the front of his dresser, but hadn’t fallen off it so he just pushed it back and righted his fallen bookshelf.

He was in the process of getting his room back together when the doorbell rang, followed by urgent knocking.

Concerned, Stiles headed for the stairs, hearing his dad call that he was coming since the knocking had turned into pounding. Stiles had reached the bottom of the stairs by the time the door opened.

“This is why I use the window,” Derek said, pushing his way into the house, eyes finding Stiles.

He was too exhausted to stay on his feet and took a seat on the bottom step, feeling worse by the second.

“What happened?” Derek demanded, crouching in front of Stiles, scowling.

“There was an earthquake?” Stiles said uncertainly, wondering why Derek was looking at him like that.

“Stiles, that wasn’t an earthquake.”

“Pretty sure it was,” he retorted.

“Stiles, I drove past the cemetery. All the graves were disturbed.”

Stiles stared at Derek like he’d spoken a different language.

All the what were what now?

“Stiles!”

He’d expected Derek to be snapping at him in his usual Derek fashion, but he didn’t. He grabbed Stiles’ face in both hands, staring at him with concern and worry etched on his face.

“Stiles, what _happened_?”

Before he could answer, the sheriff let out a loud oath and slammed the door shut, locking it. He turned to them both, looking pale.

“We have a problem.”

“No shit,” Derek muttered, but Stiles didn’t think it was loud enough for his dad to hear.

He knew what they were both saying. He understood what was being implied. He just didn’t _believe_  it.

“Are you telling me,” he said quietly, heart pounding in his chest, “that I just accidentally raised an entire cemetery in my sleep, the force of which was so powerful it caused a man-made earthquake?”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” Derek confirmed.

“Oh.” Now seemed like a perfectly reasonable time to have a panic attack. Because apparently now that Stiles had raised one person, he was raising every person who’d ever died in Beacon Hills. And he was pretty sure it was because he’d had a fucking _nightmare_.

Dread began to pool in the pit of his stomach at the thought that his mother might be out there. She was probably nothing more than a walking skeleton right now, but if he’d raised the whole cemetery, he’d raised her, too.

Was she like Matt? Did she see herself as normal? Was she eager to come home to see him and his dad, only to realize Stiles wasn’t a little kid anymore and the sheriff had aged since she’d last seen them?

“Stiles, breathe!” Derek’s hands were still on his face and he gave his head a small shake, staring worriedly into his eyes. “Stiles, you need to breathe!”

It wasn’t that easy. Didn’t Derek _get_  it?! His own _family_  was out there! Stiles had fucking raised _everyone_! Laura was probably out there! His mother and father! Fuck, _everyone_  was out there!

Stiles felt ready to throw up, and it must’ve shown because Derek shifted to the side and retreated his hands from Stiles’ face, only to bury one into his hair and wrench his head over to the side. Stiles threw up, missing his legs by only a few inches thanks to Derek’s quick thinking. He dry-heaved for a few seconds, and realized his dad was speaking. When he glanced up, he saw him on the phone. He didn’t know who he was speaking to—the station or Scott—but he looked extremely worried and kept glancing out the small window on the side of the doorway.

Derek left him for a moment, disappearing into the living room. He’d turned the lights off on his way in, and Stiles heard him swearing under his breath before he hurried back to his side.

“Stiles,” he said seriously, crouching in front of him, “what happened to make you call them?”

“I don’t... I don’t know,” he insisted, raking a shaky hand through his hair. “I was having nightmares about bugs and hands crawling up my legs, bodies dragging themselves over me, suffocating me. I dreamt that a group of Zombies were burying me alive in a coffin and then I woke up to the house shaking.”

Derek was still crouched in front of him, but he had both hands on Stiles’ thighs, left one rubbing calming circles against his bare skin. When Stiles was finished speaking, Derek pulled his phone from his pocket, dialled a number, and placed it to his ear.

“Yeah, I’m with him. What do I do?” he said the moment someone on the other end picked up.

Everyone froze when they heard banging. It wasn’t loud, angry banging, or urgent, terrified banging, but more just like a group of people were hitting their fists against the door or window or side of the house, then slowly leaning back with their arms still raised, and then falling forward again to bang once more. Like an entire army of Zombies was outside, asking to be let in.

Derek and Stiles had _just_  buried Matt again, too!

“They’re trying to get in, what do I do?” Derek demanded again, growl entering his voice. “I can’t just _calm him down_ , you stay calm after raising an army of undead!” he snapped at whoever was on the other end.

Stiles felt inclined to believe it was Deaton, the only person who could make Derek’s face turn purple aside from Stiles was Deaton.

“What do you mean? How long does he have?!” Derek’s eyes shot back to Stiles from where he’d been looking towards the living room. He looked worried again. “He’s slurring a little, but he’s conscious.”

“Barely,” Stiles managed to get out. He wanted to go back to sleep. Just go back to sleep and pretend none of this had ever happened. This was the worst. The absolute _worst_!

“Hey!” Stiles started at the loud exclamation, cheek stinging again. Derek wasn’t on the phone anymore and he looked downright _terrified_. “Stiles, stay with me. Don’t pass out, okay? You’re using a lot of energy, Argent says if you pass out now, you won’t wake up.”

“We need to get rid of them,” his dad said, appearing behind Derek. “How did you get rid of Matt?”

“We don’t know, we were both researching and Matt just kind of slumped over,” Derek said, clearly displeased.

They both looked towards the kitchen when the very distinct sound of glass breaking met their ears. Stiles felt his heart hit his feet. Something had broken though the kitchen door and was coming.

More than one something. They were all coming. They were fucking _coming_!

“Stiles, you can control them,” Derek insisted urgently, still bent in front of him, hands returning to his face. “You can control them, you summoned them, they’ll listen to you.”

“I-I don’t...” This was kind of a lot for him to handle right now. He’d barely managed _one_  undead person, let alone an entire fucking horde of them.

“Stiles, calm down. You can do this.” There was nothing calm about the way Derek was speaking, eyes darting worriedly down the corridor behind Stiles a little to the left. The sheriff had his gun drawn, and Stiles figured he’d grabbed it when he’d been having an episode of lost time.

Stiles wanted this to just fucking end. This wasn’t a fun experience. He was meant to be _normal_ , dammit!

“Stiles, focus,” Derek insisted, voice strained and grip on his face tightening.

“I can’t,” he whispered, panic building once more. “Don’t you get it?! I _can’t_  focus! I don’t know what I’m doing! I don’t know how to control this! I am _freaking out_ , and no amount of you telling me to _calm down_  is going to—”

Stiles’ mind went completely blank, because of all the things he’d expected Derek to do to calm him down, crushing his lips against his wasn’t one of them.

It was kind of a painful kiss, Derek’s stubble scratchy against his face, his lips slightly chapped, and the force of it too hard, but Stiles also recognized now wasn’t really the time for kissing. He also recognized that the action rebooted his brain and when Derek pulled away, still cradling his face in his hands, Stiles felt like he could think straight for the first time since waking up.

Well, not _straight_  in the orientation department because _wow_  was Derek ever good looking, holy smokes, but straight in the ability to think properly department.

When he turned his head, he saw an almost skeletal zombie shuffling forward and he immediately said, “Stop!”

It froze instantly, his dad aiming his gun at it, but very obviously not having any clue where to fire given the thing was more bone than anything else and how do you even kill something like that?!

Reaching up one hand to grip at Derek’s still touching his cheek, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He had _no_  idea what he was doing, but he needed all of the Zombies to go back to the cemetery. He needed to get this under control before the entire population of Beacon Hills found out about the Supernatural world. Maybe his dad could insist something had gotten into the water and everyone happened to have the same weird hallucination. After all, Zombie apocalypses were the new big thing, it could be do-able. People were dumb, they’d believe it.

Exhaling slowly and still gripping Derek’s hand against his face, he concentrated on getting the Zombies to go back to their graves. Just turn around and walk away.

He heard Derek inhale sharply, but he ignored him and just kept concentrating. He didn’t know how to free them from his control so that they were _dead_  again, but he at least needed them to go back to the cemetery.

His dad was on the phone again, saying something to someone about watching the road, but Stiles didn’t pay him any mind, continuing to concentrate on getting the bodies back where they belonged.

“You’re doing great, Stiles,” Derek said quietly, the hand not clutching Stiles’ moving to the back of his neck and squeezing. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

Stiles had no idea what he was even _doing_. He was literally making this shit up, focussing on the feel of Derek’s warm hands on his skin, his hot breath against his face, the sting from where stubble had dragged against his cheeks, the slightly earthy scent that was just pure _Derek_.

It was easier to pretend he wasn’t terrified out of his mind when he had the Werewolf so close to him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, Derek murmuring soft assurances to him while rubbing at his neck and squeezing his hand. After what felt like an eternity, Stiles feeling more drained than he ever had in his life, his father’s very faint voice broke through his concentration to say that Scott had confirmed the Zombies were crawling back into their graves.

After another moment, he said, “Why is Stiles glowing?”

“Probably his ability,” Derek’s gruff voice responded. “It started when he was trying to make them leave. Do we know if they’re back to being dead?”

“Not yet, Scott’s...” His father’s voice sounded like it was coming from underwater, and Stiles couldn’t really hear it anymore. In his mind, while he concentrated on getting the Zombies back, he felt a weird tugging sensation. It was really strong, at first. Like someone was trying to rip a part of him away, but the more he concentrated on getting the undead back where they belonged, the less he felt like he was being torn apart.

He could hear Derek’s urgent voice speaking to him, both hands back on his face, but he was so tired he couldn’t find the energy to respond to Derek, and by the time the last of the tugging left his mind, he felt himself slowly slipping away into darkness and finally let it take him.

* * *

The first thing that came back to Stiles with his consciousness was how disgusting his mouth tasted. It was like something had crawled in there while he slept and died. A horrible thought, considering his mind immediately went back to Matt being in his room and now he thought he was lying in bed with maggots and beetles everywhere.

Thankfully, despite the spike of panic that hit him, he quickly clued in to the fact that he was not in his own bed, unless his bed was a lot more uncomfortable than he remembered it being. That, and his pillow felt wrong. Lumpy and uncomfortable.

There was also the pain in the back of his head, the constant “beep beep” of a heartrate monitor, and the soft hum of voices nearby.

Letting out a small groan, he struggled to get his eyes open, staring up at the sterile white of a hospital room ceiling before turning his head to the figure hovering over him. Melissa’s smile was so genuinely relieved that it almost hurt to look at it.

“Welcome back,” she said quietly, reaching out to smooth back his hair. “How are you feeling?”

He just let out a groan in response and she smiled. She reached down with one hand and Stiles felt the bed lifting on the front end, moving him into a seated position. Melissa turned to grab something and when she faced him again holding a cup of water, he realized she’d been pouring it from the jug beside his bed.

He took it with unsteady hands, but managed to drink it all down without spilling it all over himself.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice raspy and still slightly slurred.

“The official story is you had a panic attack after the earthquake hit and passed out,” she said, taking the glass back, refilling it, and handing it to him once more. “You were extremely dehydrated when you came in and your pulse was dangerously slow. It took a while to get the latter fixed, and you’ve been on an IV for over four hours.”

Stiles stared at the needle taped to the back of his hand, then the glass of water he held. Dehydrated. Probably a side effect of exerting that much power. Maybe when he’d been glowing he’d been using up all the liquid in his body.

He didn’t know, this whole Necromancer thing was kind of new for him.

Stiles drank the new glass of water, then handed it back to Melissa. She refilled it, but left it on the table beside the bed instead of handing it to him once more.

“Where’s dad?” he asked, clearing his throat to get his voice back to normal.

“Just outside. I was just here to check in on you, but don’t worry, you’re not alone.”

When she shifted slightly, Stiles caught sight of another figure in the room.

Derek was sitting in a chair by the window, arms crossed, head bowed, and eyebrows drawn together. He was sleeping, but even in sleep he looked angry and annoyed at Stiles’ existence.

And yet...

He’d kissed him. Had it just been a heat of the moment thing to get Stiles to calm down? Normally he’d think so, except Derek had been acting weird ever since he’d gotten back, but only around Stiles. That, coupled with his obvious concern for him, and the fact that he’d driven to Stiles’ house the second the earthquake had finished, without even knowing at the time that Stiles had _anything_  to do with it...

Derek liked him.

Derek Hale actually legitimately liked him.

“He refused to leave. Whenever someone tried to tell him he couldn’t stay, he’d start growling and your dad had to insist it was fine for him to stick around.”

What? Derek had fought to stay with him?

That was kind of a big deal.

“I’ve got to finish my rounds,” Melissa said, leaning forward to kiss his forehead, then brushing some hair out of his face with a small smile. “You’re gonna be fine, Stiles.”

He felt a lump forming in his throat at the words because, how could she possibly know that? Stiles had had a nightmare and resurrected an entire fucking cemetery.

He watched her leave, speaking quietly to his father outside the room while shutting the door, and felt himself ready to panic when a voice spoke across the room and he jumped.

“You’re gonna be fine.”

Turning, he found Derek in the exact same position he’d just been in a second ago, except his head was raised now and his eyes were open.

“I raised a cemetery,” Stiles insisted quietly.

“We’re handling it, don’t worry.” His eyes shifted towards the door, but he didn’t elaborate. When he looked back at Stiles, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Sore. The usual.” He shrugged. “All in a day’s work for me.”

“You could’ve died,” Derek said, scowling. “Argent said the amount of energy you exerted should’ve killed you.”

“Oh. Then why didn’t I die?” Not that he was ungrateful or anything, he was happy to be alive, but if he should’ve died, then why hadn’t he?

“You borrowed power.”

“From who?”

Derek gave him a look and Stiles realized that the entire time he’d been working on the Zombies, Derek had been touching him. Had he sucked energy from Derek? That was kind of useful to know...

“Are _you_  okay?” Stiles asked him.

He got another look for that and Stiles rolled his eyes before searching for the remote and lowering the bed once more.

“I’m going back to sleep, Mr. Grumpy-Face.”

He heard the chair drag across the floor when his eyes closed and he peeked one back open, seeing Derek right beside his bed now, scowling down at him.

“Your face is gonna get stuck like that if you don’t give it a break.”

“You could’ve died, Stiles.”

“Not like it was planned. Kind of an accident. Accidental magic that I couldn’t control. Not unusual for us, really. We’re always ending up in situations beyond our control.”

Derek was still scowling so Stiles sighed and raised the bed into a sitting position again, turning slightly so he was almost lying on his side.

“Why did you kiss me?”

“To calm you down,” Derek said immediately, almost like he’d rehearsed the line over and over again for when Stiles inevitably asked about it.

“Is that all?” he inquired. Derek didn’t respond and he licked his lips. “What if I said I wanted to do it again, then what?”

Derek spent a long while searching his face, as if trying to find the lie in it, unable to believe the truth. Stiles wasn’t blind _or_  stupid. He and Derek had been close before he’d left. They’d kind of _been_  something, except not really. When he’d gone off in search of Kate and inevitably come back, something had changed and for a long time, Stiles hadn’t known what that was.

Now he knew. Derek liked him, and didn’t know how to handle it, how to _be_  around him. So he’d just been pushing him away, but he was also keeping an eye on him. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Derek had shown up at his house when Matt had been there. He’d shown up at the lake when he and Scott had gone out for some breathing room. He’d shown up at the house when all hell had broken loose.

And he was here now. Derek was always _around_  Stiles, because as terrified as he obviously was of being with him, he couldn’t stay away from him.

Stiles was cool with that. He had no problems with that. He _liked_  Derek, and he had for a while, and knowing that it was mutual and his actions since his return were more in fear than anything else really helped with the whole not hating him thing.

It looked like Derek didn’t know what to think or say, because he just kept staring at him without a word, and Stiles eventually hesitantly reached over the edge of the bed, putting his hand on Derek’s on the Werewolf’s knee. When Derek didn’t pull it away, he wrapped his fingers around it and rubbed his thumb gently over the back of his hand.

Derek was staring down at it for a long while, glancing up at Stiles. When he leaned forward, Stiles shifted upright in bed and they had barely pressed their lips together when the door opened.

They both jerked away from each other, Stiles clearing his throat uncomfortably and Derek pretending to look out the window, chin resting on his fist, but neither of them pulled their hands away so that when the sheriff walked in, his eyes immediately found them linked together.

“‘Bout time,” he muttered, but Stiles wasn’t sure he was meant to hear, because his dad grinned a second later and moved to his side, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. “Hey son, how’re you feeling?”

“Like I just raised an army of undead and then sent them back to sleep.”

“A remarkable feat,” a woman’s voice said, preceding her into the room.

Stiles didn’t recognize her, but despite clearly being almost as old as his father, she was stunning. Her skin was a rich dark chocolate colour, and her eyes were bright and pale green. She had her hair loose around her face in tight curls and when she smiled at him, her teeth were startlingly white.

If Stiles hadn’t literally just gotten involved with Derek, he might’ve had a crush on her.

“Stiles, this is Monica Brink. Chris Argent brought her here. Deaton called him to explain what happened after the incident with Matt, and Chris was kind enough to reach out to Monica. She drove out the second she heard Chris’ message.”

“Okay,” he said slowly, looking back and forth between the woman and his dad. “Why?”

“I’m a Necromancer.”

Stiles’ mouth fell open. “Really? I thought we were extremely rare!”

“We are, but I know Chris from our old lives.” She smiled slightly. “Hunters who’ve switched sides, so to speak. I had no choice when I found out what I was. It isn’t easy learning this on your own, so when I heard his message, I thought what better way to repay my debts for all the innocent lives I’ve taken while hunting than to train a new Necromancer? And a powerful one, at that.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice a little. “Don’t worry, we all raise some bodies the first few times. Let me guess, you were dreaming about Zombies coming after you?” 

He nodded numbly, feeling a little exposed, but also thrilled. Here was another Necromancer who was self-taught willing to _teach him_  things she had been forced to learn on her own.

He was so fucking stoked!

And grateful. Oh so grateful.

“It happens to us all, from what I’ve gathered. I don’t know many others like us, our kind is very secretive, but I’ve communicated via mail with another like us in England and he also went through the same thing. It takes time, but it goes away.”

Derek’s hand squeezed Stiles’ then, and he turned to glance at him. The Werewolf was watching him, but he just nodded once at Stiles’ questioning look, then glanced back at Monica. Stiles did the same.

“So you can train me? So that I don’t bring back the entire town when I have a nightmare?”

“That’s the plan,” she said with a smile, turning to find a chair and then dragging the spare one closer to Stiles on the opposite side of the bed as Derek. The sheriff closed the door, cutting off the bustle of bodies rushing past outside. “It’s not an easy road to walk down, but once you get the hang of it, you have a lot more control and the world is your oyster.”

“According to Scott, a Pack was coming into town to challenge you all for the territory. He says they took one look at the army of undead heading back for the cemetery and booked it out of town.” The sheriff laughed, crossing his arms. “It took a hell of a time convincing the rest of the county who saw what happened that it wasn’t real, but those Werewolves sure knew it was.”

“The advantages to our abilities are endless, but what do you say we start with control before we move on to more complex things?” Monica smiled brilliantly once more, her teeth almost blinding. “How would you like a good night’s sleep without worrying about the undead?”

“Yeah, that’d be pretty great,” Stiles admitted, shifting a bit closer to the edge of the bed on Derek’s side so he could hold his hand more comfortably.

Derek pulled it back a little, but before Stiles could be disappointed, the hand shifted and laced their fingers together, Derek’s thumb mimicking Stiles’ from earlier and rubbing smoothly back and forth along the back of his hand.

“Excellent. Let’s start with the basics, then,” Monica said, reaching into her purse and pulling out what looked like a journal.

Stiles knew this was going to change a lot in his life, and he knew it was going to be twice as terrifying and extremely difficult, but he was up for the challenge.

Let Mason be the Token Human. Stiles was a rare and extremely powerful Supernatural being.

And possibly dating the hottest Werewolf in their Pack.

Things were going to change, but somehow, despite the way his week had started, he felt like it wasn’t necessarily going to change for the worse.

Change could be good sometimes, and he was willing to give this a shot.

And based on how tightly Derek was holding his hand, it looked like the other would be right beside him the whole time.

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> The Princess Bride (c) William Goldman


End file.
